“I’m picking that up,” Ivar said.
“You being a smart-ass?” Nada snapped.
Ivar held his hands up. “No. Just taking it all in.”
Nada wasn’t placated. He tossed the next binder at Ivar with a little extra energy. “Every mission the Nightstalkers have been on. Mostly shit caused by scientists.” He threw another binder while Ivar was still fumbling with the one he’d just caught and this one banged on his arm, causing him to hiss in pain. “This is the Dumb Shit Scientist Protocol. Maybe you should read it first since you want to take it all in.”
“First priority,” Moms said in a calm voice, “is the team Protocol. You’ve got forty-eight hours to get up to speed on it. Doc?”
“Yes?”
“Show him his locker and show him how to rig his gear according to Protocol once you leave here.”
“Roger that.”
Moms turned to Nada. “Any Nada Yadas you want to lay on him?”
“When I ask,” Nada said to Ivar, “just tell me how to kill it. Whatever it is. Got it?”
Ivar nodded.
“He’ll have to learn the rest on the job,” Nada said. “We need to get moving to make our flights.” He got up and walked out of the CP. Moms stood. She went over to Ivar, who hopped to his feet. She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the team. Don’t let Nada get to you. He wants to kill Burns and he’s being stopped. He doesn’t take well to being stopped from killing those who need killing.” She nodded at Doc as she left the room. “Take care of him.”
Blake had lost both his flip-flops to the fluffer mud and he was beginning to think he’d overdone the “make the cache secure and remote” part of the Protocol. He was halfway between two barrier islands south of Myrtle Beach and the mosquitoes were feasting on him. He’d had to wait on the tide, a necessity of a beach cache, and that had eaten up two hours. It was just a little before noon and a day that had started with such promise was turning to crap.
One key to the Loop was they sacrificed speed of the message being transmitted for security.
He sucked it up, the way he’d sucked up every shitty mission for thirty-four years and the fluffer mud had sucked up his flip-flops. Yes, sir…no, sir…may I have some more, sir? Even when they dropped the “sir” and “ma’am” shit, it was still shit. Calling someone by their first name when they outranked you didn’t mean the order wasn’t real.
“‘Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die,’” he quoted as he pulled his left foot out of the muck with great effort and took another step forward. It took another hour to go fifty yards and make it to the island. He took out his GPS and checked the coordinates. Then he took out his old compass and shot two azimuths to verify.
Protocol.
It had saved his life several times, and he wanted to get back to that pool and the young mother, although he had a feeling she wouldn’t be up to chatting with him after he’d dumped her dumb kid in the pool. He’d have to try plan B. He didn’t know what that was right now, since he had other important shit on his mind, but he was content knowing there was always a plan B. Just like what he was doing right now was a plan B.
The Loop, which he was part of and was now implementing, was not official Protocol. The Loop was an attempt by operatives and former operatives to have a communication channel outside of official channels. One for all and all for one sort of thing.
It had not been an easy thing to set up. It was rarely used. And it was very slow.
But one had to try, because once in a while, someone needed help outside of official channels.
Blake removed the folding shovel from the sweat-drenched backpack he’d hauled out here. He dug.
At least the sand was soft.
He hit the ammo can at eighteen inches. It took a few more minutes to recover it from the hole. He unlatched the lid. There was a lot jammed into a little space. He peeled open two layers of waterproofing and removed the loaded pistol that was always the last item in and first item out.
He found the cell phone and encryption device. He opened the battery cases and removed the old ones. He replaced them with fresh ones. Then he typed in the message he’d received at the pool. The encryption device hummed for a bit, garbling the message into meaningless groups of five letters that only a device programmed exactly the same way could decrypt.
Blake hit send.
Then he removed the battery from the cell phone. He stood and threw the phone out into the salt water, watching it hit and sink. He replaced the phone with the exact same model. He then zeroed out the encryption device. He took a thumb drive out of his pocket and inserted it into the slot on the side. He loaded a new encryption program, removed the thumb drive, and put it back in the can. Then he put the pistol on top, resealed the two waterproof liners, closed the lid, and put the can back in the hole. He shoveled the sand back in the hole. The incoming tide would take care of concealment.
With bare feet and a bad attitude, but mission accomplished, Blake began making his way back to the mainland, his car, and eventually the pool and young mother.
He was not optimistic.
Mac had started bitching as soon as the truck carrying them rolled underneath the big sign reading: COLONEL NICK ROWE TRAINING FACILITY. Located at Camp Mackall, west of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, it was the field training facility for aspiring Special Forces soldiers.
Roland was more optimistic, pointing out there were modern buildings at a facility he remembered as having only shacks that were half-assed, leaky, and cold.
“They used to mermite chow from Fort Bragg out here,” Eagle observed. “Now they’ve got a chow hall.”
“I don’t think we’re here for the chow,” Kirk said.
Roland looked at his watch. “It’s thirteen hundred. We probably missed lunch.”
“I don’t think we’re here for lunch,” Kirk said.
A smatter of raindrops on the canvas roof over the cargo bay portended a storm rolling in. They’d flown in to Mackall Army Airfield on one of the blue-liners. Mackall was considered a sub-base to adjacent Fort Bragg and home to Special Forces Selection and Assessment, most of the Qualification Course, the SERE (Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape) compound, and other assorted training schools and scenarios. It was where the Delta raiders on the ill-fated Desert One mission to free the hostages in Iran had trained. The airfield was one almost every Special Operator had flown into or out of or jumped onto the large field the two intersecting runways contained.
The truck had been waiting, the driver shrugging when asked what was going to happen. His job was to drive them out here and that was the extent of his knowledge.
“They better not be putting us through SERE again,” Mac groused. They’d all been through the mock POW camp and training and no one was eager to do it again. “I already survived, evaded, resisted, and escaped. What more can they want? Become Houdini?”
“Probably something high speed,” Roland said. “Maybe some advanced weapons training?”
“Did you hit your head in St. Louis?” Mac asked.
The truck came to an abrupt halt, which sent them tumbling along the steel floor.
“Get your asses out of there!” An imposing figure wearing a green beret was standing to the rear of the truck, arms bulging under the rolled up sleeves of his camouflage shirt. His uniform was soaked, but he was obviously one of those guys who espoused the theory that the human body was waterproof, which was true, but tended to ignore misery.
The four team members all wore “sterile” cammies. No rank, no badges, no names. Just a number on a Velcro patch on their chest. That had started Mac’s complaining as they flew in. When the army took your name and gave you a number, it usually meant something not fun was getting ready to occur.