“We need to operate stealthily and Psychic Warrior is best suited for that. Our relationship with the Colombian government is strained at best, and Task Force is not a sanctioned operation under our agreement with them.”
Dalton could see the sense of that, but didn’t say anything.
“Also,” Kirtley continued, “the team that was lost was from your old unit-10th Special Forces.”
“What team number?”
“Zero eight four.”
Dalton knew from the number that the team was from Bravo Company, Third Battalion, not his battalion. But he also knew the team sergeant, Mike Garrison. A good man.
“What was their mission?”
“Interdict and destroy a large load of cocaine.”
“Task Force Six has no idea what happened to the team?” Dalton asked as he considered the situation.
“It just seems to have disappeared. If the cartel caught them, we’d be seeing it on CNN, so we’re not sure what’s happened. As I said, the Pentagon wants it handled discreetly, so we’ve been called in to sneak and peek.”
“Well, good luck with it.”
“This initial tasking is for you and Lieutenant Jackson and Sergeant Barnes,” Kirtley said.
“You’ve got your men here,” Dalton argued, knowing the answer even before he asked the question. “Why us?”
“My men have to be fitted and then trained as Psychic Warriors. That will take a while, according to the schedule Dr. Hammond has given us. You prefer to have this search for your comrades delayed that long?”
“I’ve never been asked my preferences,” Dalton said. “They’ve never really seemed to matter in the course of things.”
Not even the slightest hint of a smile touched Kirtley’s face. “True. They don’t. I want you, Jackson, and Barnes to prep and depart immediately. My men will observe and learn.”
“Who are you people?” Dalton asked. “CIA?”
Kirtley shook his head. “NSA.”
“And if we find the team, what are we supposed to do?”
“Report back.”
“And leave them there?”
“You can’t bring them back via Psychic Warrior, can you?”
“No, we can’t.”
“Then you leave them there, return, and file a complete report. Then someone else goes in and rescues them.”
Valika gripped the arms of the seat while forcing her face to remain expressionless as the Lear dove toward the ocean. From her first time in a plane, the initial jump at the Russian army parachute school at Mukchevo, she had never been fond of flying. She’d enjoyed jumping that first time, simply to be under her own control and out of the plane, where she had to trust the pilot and the mechanic who serviced the plane and even the slugs who built it. She’d seen the mechanics in the hangers, drinking hydraulic fluid they drained out of the airplanes to get drunk. Certainly the pilots of this jet were professionals-Cesar only hired the best-but she still preferred to be in charge of her own destiny.
Valika had received her initial training as a member of the GRU-the intelligence arm of the Soviet army. She served as an assassin, working with elite Spetsnatz teams, killing enemies of her country both inside of Russia and out. When the Wall came down in 1989, she had been one of the first to realize her talent might be better appreciated elsewhere. She’d found work with Cesar as he was taking over the reins of the Ring from his father, and she’d been with him ever since.
Across from her, Souris was engrossed in her laptop computer, her fingers flitting across the keys. They had not exchanged a single word the entire flight from Bogotá.
The blue sea of the Caribbean flashed by below, then suddenly a rocky cliff appeared and the wheels touched down a second later. In her intelligence files she had read this was the shortest airfield in the region, only four hundred meters long, and the first time she landed there had confirmed the data. The screech of brakes and the savage jerk as the pilot went one hundred percent reverse thrust confirmed that. The seat belt dug into her belly and she cursed, as she did every time she landed on Saba, in the Lesser Antilles.
“Still the problem with flying?” Souris broke the long silence. “I could help you with that. A little therapy using Aura.”
“No, thank you.”
While Valika was almost six feet in height, Souris was less than five feet tall and thin under the robe she wore. But there was a sense of something about the other woman that Valika had never been able to pin down that she picked up every time she looked in Souris ’s dark eyes. Not a physical threat, but more a piercing gaze that cut through to her core. Of course, the professor’s shaved head with the red marks tattooed onto the skin gave her a bizarre appearance.
The plane stuttered to a halt less than thirty meters from the end of the runway, beyond which the ground dropped once more into the ocean. Juancho E. Yrausquin Airport occupied the only level terrain on the tiny island, etched across a small peninsula on the northeast corner.
The door to the Lear swung down and Valika let Souris get off first. The sea battered three sides of the cliffs that surrounded the runway. In the fourth direction, the land rose precipitously to a volcanic peak, and a single-lane road snaked its way upward.
The man who stood on the tarmac next to a shiny Jeep was dressed in very expensive casual clothes. Valika found it amazing that those in the West could spend so much money on a simple pair of pants and shirt. Her own outfit was a nondescript set of khakis that did little justice to her well-conditioned body.
“Welcome, ladies.”
Souris walked past him as if she weren’t even aware of his presence. Valika knew all she cared about were her computers and where they could take her.
“To what do we owe this honor, Señor Cesar?” Valika tossed her duffel bag over her shoulder as she headed toward the man and the Jeep. Cesar was a young looking sixty. He had well-tanned skin, a startling contrast to the thick silver hair that crowned his head. A nose more like an eagle’s beak highlighted his face.
“Ah, my dear Valika.” Hector Cesar shook his head. “You must let me take you shopping someday. I can think of many outfits you would look better in.” He held out his hand to take the bag, but she ignored him, tossing it into the back of the open Jeep and climbing in after it as Souris took the passenger seat. “You both travel light as usual.”
“Just my guns,” Valika said. She nodded toward the professor. “And her computer.” Behind them a small truck had pulled up to the plane, and the Aura transmitter was unloaded from the Lear’s cargo bay.
Cesar got behind the wheel. “You did well with the American commandos. You both did.”
“You should kill the survivors and dump the bodies at sea,” Valika said. “If the Pentagon discovers we hold them, they will attack the villa in Colombia to rescue them.”
“That may be something I want in the future,” Cesar said. “And I am here, not in the villa in Colombia, so it is not an immediate concern.”
Valika saw no reason why he would want the Americans to attack, but she said nothing further. She was only a piece in the machine, and she didn’t know what the big picture was. She hoped this visit would bring some enlightenment. From the results the previous evening, she knew that meant things were developing well after years of work. Where that work was ultimately headed, she had no idea, nor did she deem it her place to ask.
Valika held on to the side as Cesar accelerated down the runway, then spun the wheel, fishtailing onto the thin road. It switchbacked a dozen times as they gained altitude, heading toward the two-thousand-foot-high peak that dominated the terrain. They passed through a small village where the small whitewashed houses pressed in on either side. No one waved a greeting or even looked at them. The few natives who still lived on the island knew their place.