"All right. I'll get you a team." Hossey looked at the clock and calculated. "I'll have them armed and at PZ twelve in twenty minutes. Anything special they need to know?"
"Not as far as I know. The plan says just that they need to be armed with live ammo."
"All right. Out here."
Hossey slammed down the phone and thought for a second. He picked up his phone again and dialed the headquarters of his 3d Battalion.
Chapter 3
"Shit," the burly soldier muttered, stretching out his left leg straight from the seat. In spite of the pain, he worked the knee — bending and straightening it — for twenty more seconds as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The doctor had told him not to move the knee for another two weeks, but he was damned if he'd sit here on his rear any longer than he had to.
The buzz of the secure STU III phone interrupted the regime. A large gnarled hand shot out and curled around the receiver. "3302. Sergeant Major Powers. This line is unsecure, sir."
"Powers, this is Colonel Hossey. Go secure." There was a pause as Powers pushed the button on his phone, then the colonel's voice continued. "Dan, I want a team at PZ twelve in nineteen minutes. They need to be armed and ready for a deployment. Have them draw a basic load of live ammunition from the arms room. Got that?"
"Yes, sir."
"There'll be two choppers landing at that time to take the team to an LZ where they will be opcon to someone from the DIA. That's all I have, so don't bother asking any questions."
Powers smiled briefly. He liked Colonel Hossey; he was old school army, not one of this new breed of ass-kissing political officers whom he seemed to be encountering with more frequency. "Yes, sir. One team, armed, basic load, PZ twelve, eighteen minutes, opcon to DIA at the LZ."
"Good," Hossey's voice rumbled. "And Dan…"
"Yes, sir?"
"I want you to send good people and I don't want to lose track of whoever you pick. You understand what I mean?"
"Yes, sir. I stay in contact with all my teams. It's SOP."
"Good. Out here."
Powers put down the phone. He looked out the window next to his desk onto the large field that stretched behind the headquarters and separated the buildings housing the team rooms for 2d and 3d battalions. Despite the wet ground and moisture in the air, Powers could see several teams out there doing exercises in clumps of eight to twelve men each.
Powers scanned the groups until his eyes came to rest on one where the men were lined up in two rows of five, paired off facing each other. The men were wearing fatigues; their rucksacks lay on the ground nearby. One of the soldiers stepped forward toward his partner and, with movements too quick to follow, swept his opponent off his feet, slamming him into the ground. Powers smiled for the second time this morning. He knew who had done that move and he knew he now had the perfect choice for this tasking — a choice that Colonel Hossey would definitely approve.
Powers focused in on the man, who was now kneeling on the other soldier's chest. He was talking to the soldiers gathered around, making a point. Powers didn't have to be any closer to recognize that figure. Back when Powers had been a master sergeant on a 7th Special Forces Group A Team at Fort Bragg, that man, Dave Riley, had been his team leader for two years. Not only had the two served together, but Riley had also been his best friend. During a mission to Colombia against the drug cartel, Riley had saved Powers's life. Powers wasn't an overly emotional man, but he had a special place in his heart for the wiry, half Irish, half Puerto Rican warrant officer.
Powers yelled for the battalion staff duty NCO and gave some quick instructions. Then the sergeant major jerked to his feet and limped for the door, ignoring the crutches that the doctor had ordered him to use. He slammed open the heavy metal door to the rear of the building and stood on the loading platform.
His knee on Doc Seay's skinny chest, CWO2 Dave Riley finished his open-hand strike a fraction of an inch above the medic's neck. Riley glanced around at his team. "Always finish the man off while you have the chance. There's no such thing as a fair fight. Your goal is…" He paused as he recognized the voice that rumbled across the parade field, calling out his name.
Riley popped to his feet. "Doc, take over. Practice leg sweeps."
The warrant officer turned and jogged toward battalion headquarters, where he could see the sergeant major leaning against the back wall, favoring his bad leg. Riley shook his head. Dumb son of a bitch wasn't using his crutches like he was supposed to. Riley loved the old NCO like a brother, but the guy sure could be pigheaded at times.
Riley had once heard the 5th Special Forces Group surgeon hold forth on theories regarding Special Forces soldiers and their various injuries. The man had compared being in Special Forces to playing professional football with regard to frequency and severity of injuries, particularly to joints. Knees were usually the first victims of an intense lifestyle that included such activities as parachuting, rucksacking with hundred-pound packs, hand-to-hand combat, and physical training seven times a week when not deployed, not to mention the potential of getting wounded or killed on a mission.
As Riley drew near his former team sergeant, he reflected on the fact that a professional athlete was considered ancient if he or she was over thirty. Yet here was Powers, forty-seven years old, and coming off his third major knee operation, still trying to get back in shape so he could return to the real world of operational missions rather than filling time working in the battalion operations shop. It certainly wasn't because Powers was making four million dollars a year like Joe Montana. It was because Powers was like the majority of Special Forces men — a dedicated professional who believed in what he was doing.
As he lightly sprinted up the metal steps to the platform, Riley felt a twinge from the puckered scars on his lower right abdomen and upper right back: entry and exit holes from two AK-47 rounds. They were reminders of a classified mission years ago on the other side of the world — his own physical sacrifice.
He came to a halt in front of the sergeant major, who towered over him. "What's up, Dan?"
Powers didn't waste any time. "You've got sixteen minutes to have your team ready to board two inbound birds here at the PZ. Rucksacks ready for deployment, personal weapons, and basic load. I already got the SDNCO tracking down the armorer, so the arms room will be open in a couple of minutes. The birds will fly you to an LZ where you'll be opconned to some DIA wienie. I got that straight from the group commander on the secure line two minutes ago."
"Anything else I need to know?"
Powers leaned forward. "Just remember our SOP about staying in touch." He reached out a hand and shook Riley's. "I'll take care of this end. Good luck, compadre."
Ward followed Freeman through the wreckage of the basement lab. The DIA man stared at the two bodies, then turned to look hard at Ward. "You didn't want to terminate those things after seeing this?" He didn't give Ward a chance to answer as he continued. "We're going to have a hell of a time keeping this under wraps."
Earlier, they'd taken the body from the lobby, put it in another room, and cleaned up the glass. The stain on the carpet they'd covered up with a rubber mat.