She also, it was said in whispers, had friends in high places.
Some said that her rapid rise to Recon command had been the result of a recommendation from no less than the President of the United States himself. It had something to do, they said, with an incident at the US Air Force's most secret base, Area 7, during which Gant had shown her worth in the presence of the President himself. But that was conjecture.
The greatest recommendation, in the end, had come from a highly-respected Marine Gunnery Sergeant named Gena 'Mother' Newman who had vouched for Gant in the best possible way: if Gant were put in command of a Recon Unit, Mother had said, then she herself would act as Gant's Team Chief.
At six-feet-two, with a fully-shaven head, one artificial leg and some of the most ruthless skills in the killing trade, Mother's word was gold. Her nickname said it all. It was short for 'Motherfucker'.
And so Gant took command of Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit 9 one month before it shipped out for Afghanistan.
There was one other thing about Libby Gant worth noting.
For almost a year now, she had been the girlfriend of Captain Shane M. Schofield.
Schofield's newly acquired Yak-141 shot through the air at close to
Mach 2.
It had been nearly five hours since his battle at Krask-8, and now, spread out before him and Book II, were the formidable Hindu Kush mountains.
And somewhere in them was Libby Gant—Potential Hostage No. 1 for anyone wanting Schofield's head.
Their Yak was almost out of gas. A quick pit-stop at an abandoned Soviet airfield in rural Kazakhstan had allowed them to refuel, but now they were running low on fuel again. They needed .to find Gant soon.
Since he didn't trust anyone in Alaska any more, Schofield tuned his plane's radio to a very obscure US satellite frequency—the frequency of the US Defense Intelligence Agency.
After his identity had been verified, he asked to be put through to the Pentagon, to David Fairfax in the Cypher and Cryptanalysis
Department.
'This is Fairfax,' a young male voice came in over his earpiece.
'Mr Fairfax, this is Shane Schofield.'
'Hey, Captain Schofield. Nice to hear from you. So, what have you destroyed today?'
'I've flooded a Typhoon-class submarine, levelled a building, and launched a ballistic missile to destroy a maintenance facility.'
'Slow day, huh.'
'Mr Fairfax, I need your help.'
'Sure:
Schofield and Fairfax had formed an unlikely alliance once
before, during the incident at Area 7. Both had received (classified) medals for their bravery and afterwards had become good friends.
Now, as he and Book II blasted over the mountains of Tajikistan in the Yak-141, Schofield could picture Fairfax—sitting at his computer in an underground room at the Pentagon, dressed in a Mooks T-shirt, jeans, glasses and Nikes, munching on a Mars Bar and looking pretty much like Harry Potter as a graduate student. A code-cracking genius of a graduate student.
'So what do you need?' Fairfax asked.
'Four things,' Schofield said. 'First, I need you to tell me where Gant is stationed in Afghanistan. Exact GPS location.'
'Jesus, Scarecrow, that's operational information. I don't have clearance for that. I could get arrested just for accessing it.'
'Get clearance. Do whatever you have to do. I just lost six good Marines because my mission to Siberia was compromised by someone back home. It was a set-up designed to put me in the hands of some bounty hunters. I can't trust anybody, David. I need you to do this for me.'
'Okay. I'll see what I can do. What else;"
Schofield pulled out the list of names he'd taken from Wexley, the ExSol leader. 'I need you to look up the following names for me . . .'
Schofield read out the names on the bounty list, including his own.
'Find out what these names have in common. Career history, sniper skills, hair colour, anything. Cross-check them on every database you've got.'
'Got it.'
'Third, look up a base in Siberia called Krask-8. Find out whatever you can about it. I want to know why it was chosen as an ambush site.'
'Okay. And the last impossible task?'
Schofield frowned, thinking—thinking about one of the names he had heard mentioned on the radio at Krask-8.
At last he said, 'This is going to sound weird, but can you look
Gant's armoured eight-wheeler skidded to a halt inside the darkened cave entrance.
Its double rear doors were flung open from within and the six-man team of Marines thundered out of it, boots slamming against the ground, guns up.
Gant stepped out of the LAV and scanned the area, the gigantic Mother Newman by her side. Both were dressed in sand-coloured fatigues, helmets and body armour, and held MP-7s and pistol-sized crossbows in their hands.
The cave here was wide and high and completely concrete-walled. A wide set of train tracks disappeared down a very steep tunnel in front of them. The tunnel was called a drift and it was how you entered the mine.
'Sphinx, this is Fox,' Gant said into her throat-mike. 'We're in. Where are you?'
A British-accented voice came in: 'Fox, this is Sphinx. Christ, it's bedlam down here! We're at the eastern extremity of the mine! About two hundred metres from the drift! They're bunkered down in front of the two vents, in an air pock—'
The signal cut off.
'Sphinx? Sphinx? Damn,' Gant turned to two of her men. 'Pokey. Freddy. Flush out those RPG foxholes upstairs. There's gotta be some internal tunnels giving access to them. Nail those suckers so we can open a safe corridor into this mine.'
'Yes, ma'am.' The two young Marines took off.
'The rest of you,' Gant said, 'follow me.'
• • •
up a guy called the "Black Knight"? Check the mercenary databases in particular, anything ex-military. He's a bounty hunter-and so far as I know, a very good one-and he's after me. I want to know who
16 '/r will be done, Scarecrow. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'
Schofield's Yak-141 zoomed over the mountain peaks of Tajikistan.
Fairfax came on the line.
'Okay, you listening. I found Gant for you. Her unit is working out of Mobile Command Station California-2, under the command of Colonel Clarence W. Walker. California-2 is located at GPS co-ordinates 06730.20, 3845.65.'
'Got it,' Schofield said, punching the co-ordinates into his trip
computer.
Fairfax went on. 'I also got a couple of hits on that list of yours. Seven of the fifteen names matched up immediately on the NATO personnel database: Ashcroft, Kingsgate, McCabe, Farrell, Oliphant, Nicholson and you are all mentioned in something called the "NATO Joint Services MNRR Study". It's dated December 1996. Looks like some kind of joint medical study we did with the Brits'
'Where is it kept?'
'USAMRMC—Army Medical Research and Materiel Command.'
'Think you can get it?'
'Of course.'
'And the other hit?' Schofield asked.
'One of our Echelon spy satellites caught a voice transmission from an unknown aircraft flying over Tajikistan only this morning. Several of the names on your list were mentioned. I'll read you the transcript:
' "BASE, THIS IS DEMON. WE HAVE WEITZMAN, ALIVE, AS INSTRUCTED. HEADING FOR THE KARPALOV MINE SYSTEM NOW. IT'S THE MONEY SHOT—THE BIGGEST CONCENTRATION OF TARGETS ON THE LIST. FOUR OF THEM IN THE ONE PLACE: ASHCROFT, KHALIF, KINGSGATE AND ZAWAHIRI. PLUS SCHOFIELD'S GIRL IS THERE, TOO."'