The Chief’s room was much better outfitted than either hers or Kacey’s. Among other things it had a full stereo system, a plasma screen TV and the game console. On a small desk there was a high-end laptop.
“I don’t play Halo that much these days,” D’Allaird said, slipping a disk into the console. “I found another addiction. And it turned out there were already a couple around.”
It took a moment for the game to boot up then he fiddled with the menu. Finally, they were looking at a very familiar view.
“It’s a Hind combat simulator,” D’Allaird said. “I ran across it a couple of months ago. Face facts, most engineers are guys who couldn’t get into pilot training. This is the closest I get.”
“Holy shit,” Kacey said, sitting down in the floor chair in front of the TV. “But it’s one of those controller things.”
“Ah, no,” D’Allaird said, pulling out a set of controls and sliding them over. “I’ve got two. You can split screen and both pl… train at the same time. You can even work on coordination.”
“These are pretty accurate,” Tammie said, sitting down in an adjoining chair. “Why two chairs?”
“Oh, I’ve been playing with Colonel Nielson,” D’Allaird admitted. “He’s pretty good at Medal of Honor… ”
“Gun position, left,” Tammie yelled. “Fuck, I’m taking fire!”
“Got it,” Kacey replied then paused. “Okay, actually I missed it, coming around.”
“I’ve got a hot engine light! See ya! I’m down.”
“I got the gun position, at least,” Kacey said. “Try to land near the friendlies.”
“There aren’t any friendlies here,” Tammie pointed out. “I’m going back to last checkpoint. I see you, coming in on your seven o’clock, low.”
“There’s another position on the other side of the ridge,” Kacey said, calmly, pulling back on the stick and then leaning sideways with another yank. “Scissor left.”
“Got it.”
“Directly south of that other position, one hundred yards. They’re engaging me… ”
“Got it. Smoked.”
“Good,” Kacey said. “You take lead, I’ll take your right. I got dinged on that one… ”
“Okay, wingman. You get the chicken.”
“Hey!”
“I wonder if everybody on this op is having this much fun?”
“Probably not… ”
Katya sighed and lay down on the bed in her clothes, wrapping the thin blanket around herself and luxuriating in the aloneness. Soon the mission would be done and she could go back to her room in the caravanserai. She realized she had started to think of it as home and blanched. She lived “in the cold” as Jay would put it. There was nowhere in her world that was warm. She refused to allow the possibility.
But the thought of the walls of the caravanserai around her, the Keldara patrolling the mountains, the Kildar with his guns and his training, the lock on the door.
Crap. She was getting soft.
She stuck her hand under the thin, lice infested pillow, felt her fingers touch paper and froze. She rolled over, pulling the blanket up more and slid the slip of paper out in one natural motion. Even if there was a video bug in the room it was unlikely anyone would see the motion. Unfortunately, there was no way she could read it in this light. She considered that for a moment then stuck it in her bra and got up.
The outhouse was cold as hell but there wasn’t anyone around on a rainy and nasty night like this. Once inside, fearful of the results from the stench of the place, she struck a match and read the brief note.
“Switch for Marina tomorrow night.”
Stuck to the paper was a small bit of plastic. Pealing it off she saw that it was a fake scar, identical to the one on Marina’s chin. Fucking identical down to the slight hook at the base.
The note was signed simply: J.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”
She realized there was no way she was going to be able to figure out which of the people in town the spymaster was posing as. But just having him nearby gave her that warm feeling again. It was that, as much as the fact that he was here, that had caused the exclamation.
She was not getting soft. Not.
She touched the match to the paper and it flared briefly, with very little light, then disappeared into bare ash. She rubbed her fingers together, waved the match out and dropped it between her legs.
The scar went into her bra. Right by her heart.
The point paused at the entrance of the defile and looked in cautiously.
The weather, to most people, would fall into the category of “sucks.” The clouds had dropped even more, filling the upland valley with fog mixed with rain, sleet and snow as if it couldn’t figure out which way it wanted to go.
To Mike it was perfection. It was damned hard to see fifty feet, much less miles, which meant easier for the teams to stay out of sight.
The terrain wasn’t bad, either. The clear uplands had been nervous making from the point of view of being spotted. And this side of the mountains was incredibly drier than just sixty miles away. The lowlands were mostly covered in tight, thorny thickets of scrub. Making their way through the tight-packed and dripping scrub had been a nightmare. Mike had figured about twice their movement rate and, with the sun well up, they were late to their rendezvous. But even that wasn’t bad; they’d spotted two Chechen patrols before they themselves were spotted and let them waft right by. Tight scrub was pretty scrub in his view.
Now to find out if anybody else was going to make the show. God only knew when Yosif’s team would make it. If any of them did. He’d half convinced himself Yosif couldn’t find his way across a paddock, much less over the mountains and through this maze.
The designated rendezvous point was a narrow ravine packed with rodedendron. The stuff was normal in upland areas like this but on this side of the mountains it was only found in narrow clefts like this where there was sufficient water.
The area was large enough to hide all three teams, away from noticeable trails and, of course, good concealment given the nature of the vegetation. The only question was whether the Chechens had thought the same thing.
The majority of the team was on the slope of the larger valley the ravine intersected. There was a small stream running down the ravine, it’s waters still free of ice, and a larger one, fed by the glacier they’d crossed, running down the valley. To get to the ravine they’d have to cross the river but that wasn’t the problem.
The point team, Ivan Shaynav and Mikhail Ferani, were cautiously observing the entrance from about fifty meters away. They apparently didn’t like what they were seeing. Mike, peering through the underbrush in the way, wasn’t sure what had them spooked.
Finally, Mikhail slithered forward on his belly to the juncture of the two streams and took up a position by a boulder. Back in his ghillie suit, over the heavy arctic wear they were all still encumbered by, he was hard enough for Mike to see. Probably any Chechen sentry wouldn’t have noticed him, yet.
Mike saw him start, though and then look around. Finally, clambering to his feet, Mikhail lifted one hand, middle-finger extended in a rude gesture directed across the river.
A figure in an identical ghillie suit stood up, right at the edge of the open area, and threw back the hood of the suit. Then Yosif Devlich waved and tossed a rope across the stream.
Fucking Yosif had beat them to the rendezvous. Mike couldn’t figure out why he’d ever been worried.