"Nichevo, " he whispered to himself again. He'd learned something of great importance this night, and to celebrate he poured himself another vodka. Now he had to follow it up. How? He'd think that one over, sleeping on the thought, trusting his trained brain to come up with something.
They were nearly home already. The MC- 130 had picked them up and flown the now relaxed team back to Fereford, their weapons re-packed in the plastic carrying cases, their demeanor not the least bit tense. Some of the men were cutting up. Others were explaining what they'd done to team members who'd not had the chance to participate directly. Mike Pierce, Clark saw, was especially animated in his conversation with his neighbor. He was now the Rainbow kill-leader. Homer Johnston was chatting with Weber-they'd come to some sort of deal, something agreed between them. Weber had taken a beautiful but out-of policy shot to disable the terrorist's Uzi, allowing Johnston to-of course, John told himself, he didn't just want to kill the bastard who'd murdered the little girl. He'd wanted to hurt the little prick, to send him off to hell with a special, personal message. He'd have to talk to Sergeant Johnston about that. It was outside of Rainbow policy. It was unprofessional. Just killing the bastards was enough. You could always trust God to handle the special treatment. But well, John told himself he could understand that, couldn't he? There had once been that little bastard called Billy to whom he'd given a very special interrogation in a recompression chamber, and though he remembered it with a measure of pain and shame, at the time he'd felt it justified… and he'd gotten the information he'd needed at the time, hadn't he? Even so, he'd have to talk with Homer, advise him never to do such a thing again. And Homer would listen, John knew. He'd exorcised the demons once, and once, usually, was enough. It must have been hard for him to sit at his rifle, watching the murder of a child, the power to avenge her instantly right there in his skilled hands, and yet do nothing. Could you have done that, John? Clark asked himself, not really knowing what the answer was in his current, exhausted state. He felt the wheels thump down on the Hereford runway, and the props roar into reverse pitch to slow the aircraft.
Well, John thought, his idea, his concept for Rainbow was working out rather well, wasn't it? Three deployments, three clean missions. Two hostages killed, one before his team deployed to Bern, the other just barely after their arrival in the park, neither one the result of negligence or mistake on the part of his men. Their mission performance had been as nearly perfect as anything he'd ever seen. Even his fellow animals of 3rd SOG in Vietnam hadn't been this good, and that was something he'd never expected to say or even think. The thought came suddenly, and just as unexpectedly came the near-need for tears, that he might have the honor to command such warriors as these, to send them out and bring them back as they were now, smiling as they stood, hoisting their gear on their shoulders and walking to the open rear cargo door on the Herky Bird, behind which waited their trucks. His men.
"The bar is open!" Clark called to them, when he stood.
"A little late, John." Alistair observed." If the door's locked, we'll have Paddy blow it," Clark insisted, with a vicious grin.
Stanley considered that and nodded. "Quite so, the lads have earned a pint or two each." Besides which, he knew how to pick locks.
They walked into the club still wearing their ninja suits, and found the barman waiting. There were a few others in the club as well, mainly SAS troopers sipping at their last-call pints. Several of them applauded when the Rainbow team came in, which warmed the room. John walked to the bar, leading his men and ordering beer for all.
"I do love this stuff," Mike Pierce said a minute later, taking his Guinness and sipping through the thin layer of foam.
"Two, Mike?" Clark asked.
"Yeah." He nodded. "The one at the desk, he was on the phone. Tap-tap," Pierce said, touching two fingers to the side of his head. "Then another one, shooting from behind a desk. I jumped over and gave him three on the fly. Landed, rolled, and three more in the back of the head. So long, Charlie. Then one more, got a piece of him, along with Ding and Eddie. Ain't supposed to like this part of the job. I know that-but, Jesus, it felt good to take those fuckers down. Killin' kids, man. Not good. Well, they ain't gonna be doing any more of that, sir. Not with the new sheriff in town."
"Well, nice going, Mr. Marshal," John replied, with a raised glass salute. There'd be no nightmares about this one, Clark thought, sipping his own dark beer. He looked around. In the corner, Weber and Johnston were talking, the latter with his hand on the former's shoulder, doubtless thanking him for the fine shot to disable the murderer's Uzi. Clark walked over and stood next to the two sergeants.
"I know, boss," Homer said, without being told anything. "Never again, but goddamn, it felt good."
"Like you said, never again, Homer."
"Yes, sir. Slapped the trigger a little hard," Johnston said, to cover his ass in an official sense.
"Bullshit," Rainbow Six observed. "I'll accept it -just this once. And you. Dieter nice shot. but…"
"Nie wieder. Herr General. I know, sir." The German nodded his submission to the moment. "Homer, Junge, the look on his face when you hit him. Ach, that was something to see, my friend. Good for the one on the castle roof, too."
"Easy shot," Johnston said dismissively. "He was standing still. Zap. Easier 'n throwing darts, pal."
Clark patted both on the shoulder and wandered over to Chavez and Price.
"Did you have to land on my arm?" Ding complained lightly.
"So, next time, come through the window straight, not at an angle."
"Right." Chavez took a long sip of the Guinness.
"How'd it go?" John asked them.
"Aside from being hit twice, not bad," Chavez replied. "I have to get a new vest, though." Once hit, the vests were considered to be ruined for further use. This one would go back to the manufacturer for study to see how it had performed. "Which one was that, you think, Eddie?"
"The last one, I think, the one who just stood and sprayed at the children."
"Well, that was the plan, for us to stop those rounds, and that one went down hard. You, me, Mike, and Oso, I think, took him apart." Whatever cop had recovered that body would need a blotter and a freezer bag to collect the spilled brains. "That we did," Price agreed as Julio came over.
"Hey, that was okay, guys!" First Sergeant Vega told them, pleased to have finally participated in a field operation.
"Since when do we punch our targets?" Chavez asked.
Vega looked a little embarrassed. "Instinct, he was so close. You know, probably could have taken him alive, but-well, nobody ever told me to do that, y'know?"
"That's cool, Oso. That wasn't part of the mission, not with a room full of kids."
Vega nodded. "What I figured, and the shot was pretty automatic, too, just playin' like we practice, man. Anyway, that one went down real good, jefe. "
"Any problem on the window?" Price wanted to know.
Vega shook his head. "Nah, gave it a good kick, end it moved just fine. Bumped a shoulder coming through the frame, but no problems there. I was pretty pumped. But you know, you shoulda had me cover the kids. Fin bigger, I woulda stopped more bullets."
Chavez didn't say that he'd worried about d'ega's agility wrongly, as it had turned out. An important lesson learned. Bulky as Osowas, he moved lightly on his feet, far more so than Ding had expected. The bear could dance pretty well, though at 225 pounds, he was G little large for a tutu.