It could be the same someone who had gotten Thomas Parker killed.
Thomas. The very name brought a smile curling to his lips, memories flooding back of the years he had known him. Hard, brutal years, fighting a shadow war across the world. They were warriors of the darkness, bound together only by the brotherhood of arms, an unbreakable bond forged in the fire of battle.
He could think back to the first time he had met Thomas, when the New Yorker had first joined the Company. A man with no past military experience, his easy, wise-cracking manner had at first disturbed Harry. He hadn’t been sure Thomas would hold up. That he could be relied upon. All that had vanished after their first mission together.
They had waded ashore onto the Indonesian island of Java, locking out from a Los Angeles — class sub. Their orders were straight-forward. Take out a Muslim cleric who had been involved in the Bali nightclub bombings.
And that dark night, Harry had found that beneath Thomas’s easy personality lay a man of steel. He hadn’t broken.
All that was over now. Harry sighed heavily, focusing on the mission ahead of him. There would be time for grief. It wasn’t now. He looked down, checking the coordinates he had typed into his GPS unit. Four kilometers…
3:17 A.M.
The base camp
The young sentry stopped his pacing back and forth across the hard, rocky plateau near the entrance to the base camp. Something-he had heard something out there in the night. A sound, perhaps a rock sliding down in the hill. Probably just an animal.
He never had a chance. A bullet came whistling out of the darkness, striking him between the eyes. He toppled backward like a rag doll, hitting the rocky ground as life drained from his body. Three of his comrades around the perimeter died almost simultaneously.
The first line of sentries was down.
Gideon Laner stepped from the darkness, the silenced pistol clutched in both hands. He paused for a moment over the body, gazing down into the sentry’s shattered face. He had been little more than a boy. But the Kalishnikov which lay a few feet from the lifeless corpse was no child’s toy. He had made his choice. And now he was dead because of it.
The trailer door came flying open with a crash, rousing Moshe Tal from his sleep. The archaeologist started to rise, but suddenly the trailer was illuminated by a blinding light as bright as the noonday sun, accompanied by a sound wave that stunned his ears. He collapsed back to his blankets, shaking his head to clear it. He could dimly hear Rachel Eliot scream from two cells down, saw the sentry collapse to the floor as his vision cleared.
None of it made sense. The sound of boots against the hard trailer floor penetrated the loud ringing in his ears. A voice proceeding out of the darkness which had once again descended over him.
“Dr. Moshe Tal?” the voice demanded, speaking English. Moshe rolled to his feet, his hands gripping the bars of his cell. “Here!”
More footsteps. Moshe blinked as a tactical flashlight was shone in on him. It played on his face for a moment while its owner apparently satisfied a question as to his identity.
“Stand in the corner of the cell, doctor. Keep your head down and cover your ears. I’m going to blow this lock.”
“Who are you?”
“Friends,” the voice replied with alarming ambiguity. “Now move it. We don’t have all night. Place the charge, sergeant.”
Gideon watched as Yossi shaped the plastic explosive with his hands, wrapping it around the crude lock. He could have shot the lock with his Uzi, but he had come too far to risk one of the bullets ricocheting and injuring Dr. Tal. Gideon shuddered at the very thought.
The Sayeret Matkal sergeant fixed a detonator to the charge and stepped back. “Charge placed, people. Stand clear.”
The team backed away while Gideon flashed the light in again on the man who had brought them all this way. He was squatted in the corner as instructed, his head tucked down. Clearly the archaeologist hadn’t forgotten his military training.
“Fire in the hole,” Yossi announced gravely.
“Fire in the hole, aye,” Gideon repeated as the sergeant pressed the detonator. The explosion echoed in the small confines of the trailer and the door went swinging inward, nearly ripped from its hinges.
Moshe felt a piece of the metal dig itself into his shoulder, but he ignored it with an effort.
Hands took hold of his arms, lifting him up. “Let’s go, doctor,” the voice ordered, low and urgent. He could dimly make out a man in commando uniform, but couldn’t see his face.
They turned him around and hurried him toward the door. That was when he realized what was going on. “My team!”
They ignored him. “You’re leaving them!” he protested, attempting to drag his feet on the smooth tile floor of the trailer.
The commando leader paused at the door, turning to face him. “We were sent to rescue you, Dr. Tal,” he stated bluntly. “My orders include no one else.”
And then they went out into the night…
6:25 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“I have something you need to see.” It was Ron Carter’s voice on the phone, its tone calm but unmistakably urgent.
“What is it?” Bernard Kranemeyer asked.
“An update on the sat shots Sorenson gave us.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“No need, boss,” the analyst replied. Vintage Carter, calm, cool, and collected. They hadn’t seen too much of that tonight. “I’m arranging a live stream to your terminal. Just sit tight.”
The DCS nodded, turning to his computer and switching the monitor on. A moment later the screen flashed to black and then the satellite imagery appeared.
“They’re still moving.”
“So much I see,” Kranemeyer replied, irritation in his voice. “Any idea where they’re going?”
“Every idea. Look to the right side of your screen,” Carter instructed. “Tell me what you see?”
“More thermal blooms. What is that-” Kranemeyer’s face lit up with a sudden realization. “The base camp! That stubborn son of a gun is still headed for the base camp.”
“I know. And that’s not all. See what you make of this.”
Another shot came flashing up on the screen, this time of the base camp itself. Figures were hurrying from one of the trailers toward two small vehicles parked on the edge of camp.
“What’s going on, Carter?”
“Wish I knew. I’ve ID’d the fast attack vehicles. They’re an American make, Chenowth Racing Products, Inc., built under license in Germany.”
“Exported to which countries?”
“Haven’t come up with that yet, boss.”
Kranemeyer studied the photograph for another minute. The night was going from bad to worse, spinning out of control. “I need to communicate with Nichols,” he said at last. “Right away.”
“Last I talked with Danny they’d been trying. He’s just not answering the phone.”
“Then find another way, blast it! Is there a way to override the vibrator on Nichols’ TACSAT?”
“I believe so. Let me have a chat with the boys over at S amp;T-the TACSAT-10 is their toy, after all.”
“No,” Kranemeyer replied, cutting the analyst short. “You’ll handle it. Find a work-around, but keep the circle close. Orders of the DCIA.”
“What’s going on?”
“That’s not your concern. Just play it close to the vest tonight, Ron.”
3:26 A.M.
The base camp
“All right,” Harry whispered, holding up his hand for a halt. He dropped to one knee behind a rock formation, the rest of the team forming in a huddle behind him. “This is where we break up. Go the rest of the way on our bellies.” He reached into his shirt and unfolded a small map. It was plain, no marks save those chiseled into his mind back in Washington.