Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

And that posed an entirely different problem. It was one thing to infiltrate an area to kill a person; it was quite another to infiltrate with the intent of trying to convince your target—whom you’d already lied to once—not to complete his own mission, which he was certain would free his homeland. And if that failed, Jonas would be left with only one option. But, even though he knew the odds against succeeding, knew he was jeopardizing the entire mission, as well as putting himself and Marcus in even more danger, Jonas intended to try.

Ahead, Marcus held his fist up, and Jonas came to a halt.

“Yes?”

“My HUD says we’re getting close. Going to have to sneak and peek from here on in.” Jonas heard a small click as the other man readied his sound-suppressed MP-5.

“All right, but remember, every minute that passes brings daylight that much closer.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Now follow me, and try to keep up.” The facemask covered Marcus’s mouth, but Jonas knew he was smiling underneath.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be right behind you. Just get us there ASAP.”

“Shoot, I’ll have us in early and back home in time for breakfast,” Marcus said.

I wouldn’t count on that, Jonas thought. He trailed his partner as they stalked across more fields, through small and large patches of woods and around the scattered small houses they came across. His enhanced hearing brought Jonas the usual sounds of the early morning, the occasional call of a mourning dove, the chirps of crickets in the fields and the warm, gentle breeze as it rustled through the trees.

A soft beep suddenly alerted him to their proximity to the target. As they had gotten closer, every time Primary sent him an updated map of Damason’s location, Jonas had plugged it into the sensor suite’s map overlay, so that he and Marcus would know exactly how far away they were. Now, about 150 yards out, Jonas called a halt, sucking a long drink of water from his CamelBak hydration system.

Marcus stopped and crouched down, his cammo turning him into a small hillock on the open field. “What’s up?”

“Change in plans.” Jonas expanded the map overlay, projecting it until the refinery and its surroundings took up his entire field of vision. “Patch into my map view. I’ve been informed by Primary that I am to make contact with the target and attempt to turn him before calling the termination.”

“They want you to go in and talk to the guy?” Marcus’s voice was composed of equal parts disbelief and anger.

“That could blow the whole mission. What if he’d rather shoot first than chat?”

“Hey, we’re here to do a job, not question our orders.”

As he spoke, Jonas felt another stab of pain at lying to his partner, risking exposing both of them to even more danger.

“It’s not my choice, either.”

And truthfully, it wasn’t, Jonas thought. He would much rather set up a clean kill shot from five hundred yards away and take the guy out at range, then melt back into the night.

But he couldn’t do that—not without at least trying to make contact first.

“Man, this deal is getting worse and worse by the minute.

All right, I’ve got visual. What’s the plan?” Marcus asked.

Jonas marked Damason’s position with a red dot. “I want you to circle west and come in through the long stretch of forest to here.” Jonas marked a spot on the other side of what looked like a grassy trail, to the west of where his target was setting up his ambush. “That should give you a clear field of fire, and with the thermal scope, you should be able to pick out your target easily. However, you are not to fire unless I give the word, even if I appear to be in imminent danger. Do you understand?”

“I got it,” Marcus said.

“I’ll give you ten minutes to work your way into position, and then I’ll start my approach. If you get there early, let me know, and I’ll move out,” Jonas said.

“Right.” Marcus split off and crept into the gloom, disappearing in a half-dozen steps.

Jonas turned and looked to the east, where the first rays of dawn were just beginning to lighten the horizon, then he hunkered down to wait for Marcus’s signal, trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say to his son when he saw him.

As Damason had expected, the first security squad had arrived about twenty minutes after he and Lopez had finished their perimeter sweep. He carefully arranged the five-man team around the facility so that none of the men would be able to see each other.

“Men, securing this refinery is a larger challenge than usual, but one that I know all of you are prepared for, because you were handpicked by our leader. I have your assignments, and I expect them to be carried out with the professionalism that marks the very best of our armed forces. Remember to keep the radio channel clear unless you are absolutely sure that you have identified a threat to our leader, or unless I contact you. Are there any questions?”

Silence and five curt head shakes answered him. “Then assume your posts.”

He gave them a few minutes to get settled, then went to the truck and pulled out the blanket-wrapped Dragunov sniper rifle and handed it to Lopez. “Let’s go.”

He walked toward Gonzago’s position, the sergeant following a step behind. Ten yards away, he got out his radio.

“Gonzago, this is Major Valdes approaching your position.”

“Acknowledged, Major, you are cleared to approach.”

He crossed the road and stepped into the thicket where the small, wiry soldier blended into the surroundings. Gonzago saluted, a puzzled frown crossing his face. “Major, I was just about to contact you anyway. When I came in here, I found the grass flattened, as if someone had already used this area as an observation point.”

“Our leader has obviously chosen his protectors well,”

Damason said as he took a step closer and lowered his voice.

“What I am about to tell you is classified and cannot go beyond the two of us.”

The soldier’s eyes widened, and he stood even straighter upon hearing the news.

“We have received word that there is a plot to assassinate our beloved leader, and the perpetrators of this heinous crime are part of his own security detail.”

Gonzago’s eyes widened in shock. “But surely our counterintelligence—”

Damason held up his left hand. “It was through the efforts of our dedicated counterintelligence personnel that this plot was uncovered in the first place. Our leader wants to capture the men responsible for this terrible plan in the act, which is why we’re here.Your service and dedication to the revolution are above reproach in every way. That is why I have placed you in this vital position. I am asking you, on behalf of all Cuba, to watch with the utmost attention as he approaches.”

Gonzago saluted with a quivering hand. “I will not let our leader down.” He turned to resume his position. Damason reached around to clap his hand over the soldier’s mouth and drag him away from the front of the clearing. Wrenching Gonzago’s head to the left, he raised his right hand and plunged a six-inch blade into the man’s neck, severing his carotid artery and spraying a jet of blood into the air. The soldier convulsed once, then went limp, and Damason gently lowered him to the ground.

“Although you did not know it, you have an important role to play in this operation, soldier.” Damason rolled him to one side, cleaned his hands, then turned to Lopez and took the rifle from him. “Take your position—make sure no one comes up on me. You know the signal.”

Lopez nodded and melted into the underbrush. Damason immediately felt more secure knowing that his sergeant would be about ten yards away. He unwrapped the rifle and inspected the scope, removing the protective caps on each end and making sure the lenses were clean. His one regret was that he hadn’t had a chance to test fire the rifle. He had loaded an empty magazine and dry-fired it, to get an idea of the feel of the weapon and its trigger pull, but he couldn’t have taken the risk of being discovered actually shooting it.