It occurred to Avery that he wore the same pants he’d had going into Gorno-Badakhshan. He reached down and shoved his hand into a deep pocket, felt around, and found the GPS receiver Poacher had provided.
However, slipping the receiver onto one of the trucks presented much the same series of problems as getting a look at the cargo. Namely, slipping across the tarmac and getting that close to the trucks, and then getting away, unseen. The lighting around the airfield, so ideal in the previous hours for observation, now suddenly became an enormous source of compromise.
And there was still no sighting of Cramer.
The Taliban, closely allied with the IMU, had him and were going to turn him over to the Russians, Avery realized. It was the only logical connection, but it still didn’t make much sense.
Three more minutes passed.
The tanker trucks topped off the Antonov and departed. The Russians carried a couple final boxes out of the Antonov, finished loading the trucks, and retreated back into the hangar. The four Russian soldiers were left standing around, looking bored.
And the tarmac suddenly looked invitingly empty.
Avery immediately tapped his throat mike and said softly, “Carnivore for Mockingbird.”
“Go for Mockingbird,” the voice responded.
“Do you have eyes inside the hangar?”
“Partially, that Russkie trash hauler’s blocking my view. It looks like everyone’s huddled around a fridge, smoking and drinking. Everyone else headed into that building, I reckon to grab some chow and empty their bladders before they get moving again.”
“I’m going around the back to get to the north end of the hangar. I’m going in for a closer look at those trucks. I’ll need a diversion, something to distract those soldiers still standing around. Think you can manage that?”
“Roger. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Wait for my word.”
Avery expected to hear Poacher butting in at any second, to ask if he’d lost his mind, but it never came. Poacher didn’t like winging shit like this. Neither did Avery, but under the circumstances, he felt it warranted the risk.
Avery crawled back through the dirt and grass, scanned his surroundings to make sure it was clear, and then maneuvered onto his feet. He took careful, deliberate steps, so as to maintain silence and not alert the soldiers to his presence. It was a quiet night, and any sound from stepping on a stick or kicking a rock would travel far through the air.
Once he reached the rear wall of the hangar, Avery replaced his night vision goggles over his eyes. There were no light sources here, and it was almost completely black. He proceeded cautiously forward, moving quickly and quietly.
About three-fourths of the way down the hangar’s length, Avery stopped dead in his tracks.
He heard voices up ahead, around the corner of the hangar, speaking Russian. He sidestepped to the left, behind the cover of a thick tree. He lowered his body into a squat, descending into the darkness, and rested on his haunches.
Seconds later, a soldier turned the corner of the hangar. He looked ahead and walked forward into the dark behind the hangar. A lit cigarette hung between his lips. The Russian moved slowly, his eyes not yet acclimated to the darkness here, stepping on twigs and leaves and anything else in his path. He kept one hand against the wall of the hangar, to help guide himself. His other hand held the AK-12, which was slung around his shoulder, barrel angled toward the ground. He looked past Avery without seeing him.
The soldier stopped ten feet from Avery. He turned to face the concrete wall of the hangar. His hands moved in front of his waist, and Avery saw the motion of the right hand lowering his zipper and heard the steady stream of urine flow against the wall and into the grass.
Not taking his eyes off the soldier, Avery’s left hand moved slowly from his rifle to the belt strap on the ModGear vest and found the handle of Cold Steel Tanto. He withdrew the blade from the sheath and transferred the knife to his right hand. He sprung up and closed the distance to the soldier.
The Russian reacted to the sound, snapping his head fast around to the right. The cigarette dropped from his mouth and fluttered to the ground. He saw the black shape coming at him through the night, and the gleam of the blade in the air.
Before the soldier could react or utter a word, Avery was behind him clamping his gloved hand hard over the soldier’s mouth, his forearm pressed against his shoulder, restraining him.
Avery jerked the soldier’s head back and slammed the seven inch steel blade through the side of his neck. He heaved the knife back with a hard jerk, cutting through and severing the jugular vein and carotid artery. Avery left the knife in place, buried deep to the hilt. The soldier struggled for his life. He thrashed and squirmed in Avery’s arms, but was unable to utter a sound as blood quickly filled his windpipe, and he choked and gagged on it. Avery gently guided the soldier facedown to the ground, and held him still until he expired.
Then he withdrew his knife. Blood immediately poured out from the gaping wound in the soldier’s neck, saturating the soil.
Avery wiped his blade clean on the soldier’s jacket and stood up. He glanced down at the unmoving body. In Yazgulam, he’d executed Babayev without hesitation. Given the opportunity, he’d sure as hell do it again, too, because Otabek Babayev had murdered countless people and was an enemy. This soldier wasn’t an enemy, just a young kid who cared more about seeing his parents again and fucking his girlfriend, and given a shit job by the army. Killing him was a vile, dirty thing, but there’d been no way around it.
Avery continued forward and cautiously around the corner of the hangar.
Still within the cover of the dark and the shadows of by the nearby trees, he stopped, deactivated his night vision and scanned the tarmac with his scope. He saw the open cargo hold of the Antonov and the Ural trucks parked near it. He couldn’t see the remaining three soldiers, but he heard them chatting.
Avery checked in once more with Mockingbird, who informed him that everyone else was still in the back of the hangar, standing around and shooting the shit. Avery signaled Mockingbird to give him that distraction.
From where he stood, Avery did not see the flash of light emanating sporadically from Mockingbird’s position in the field on the other side of the runway, but it caught the soldiers’ attention. Avery heard the Russian small talk suddenly stop, one of the voices talking over the others and pointing out the anomaly. Then the soldiers started across the tarmac toward the field to investigate.
Avery heard Poacher’s voice in his ear, telling him the coast was clear. Keeping his head down, Avery sprinted ahead in a low crouch, scanning for threats along the way and keeping his finger poised over his rifle’s trigger guard. His eyes locked onto the nearest truck, its back facing him. The tailgate was still lowered, but it looked high. Five feet, he thought, too high to jump. He pushed his legs harder and picked up the pace. He reached out, laid the rifle down on the bed, placed both hands atop the lowered tailgate, and sprung off his legs, lifting himself off the ground. He muscled up onto the bed and snatched the rifle back up.
It was dark inside the trailer, under the heavy tarpaulin draped over the bed. The reach of the outside lamp’s glow extended only to the first couple feet of the platform’s fourteen foot length. Wooden boards were erected to form a wall around the bed, supporting the heavy duty tarp. Crates, boxes, and steel cases were stacked everywhere, almost completely covering the thirty-two square foot platform, leaving barely enough room to move.
Avery pulled the mini Maglite flashlight from his vest, switched it on, and held it between his teeth. He shined the red light over one of the long, metal cases. He couldn’t read the entire Russian inscription printed on the side, but he was able to identify the important bit. The 9K38 designation ominously stood out. NATO agencies referred to the 9K38 Igla-S, the newest model of Russia’s man portable surface-to-air missile, as SA-24 Grinch.