Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

He held the push-to-talk button down, and spoke into the phone.

“Whiskey-Six, this is Whiskey Two-Two. Do you receive, over.”

“Whiskey Two-Two, this is Whiskey-Six, roger. Authentification, please.”

“Olympic downhill,” said Ray.

Commo tumbled out of protocol.

“Ray, Jesus-”

“Whiskey-Six, do you have Six Actual there, over.”

“Negative, Two-Two, I’ll get him, over.”

“Whiskey-Six, negative, no time now. Be advised Two-Two is on-site and will execute tomorrow. I say again, Two-Two on-site, running hot, straight and dead zero, will execute as planned tomorrow and then exfiltrate by any means possible. Scrub the chopper pickup, Two-Two will hump it out the soft way. Do you read, over?”

“Copy that, Two-Two, will advise Six Actual ‘On-site and will execute to-’”

“Whiskey Six, that is all. Two-Two out.”

Ray cut off the power, hung the phone on its cradle.

He turned off the idling engine, eased out of the vehicle, low-crawled seventy-five feet to the sector of fencing farthest from the guard post, staying out of the lights, and took his cuts and punctures while slowly picking his way through the lower coils. That wasn’t easy but far from impossible, for the barbed wire was meant to slow down, not stop, incursion. A little beyond the wire, he found shadow and rose and slipped away to the site where he’d cached his SVD. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a very interesting day.

FOB WINCHESTER

S-2 SHOP

ZABUL PROVINCE

SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

2350 HOURS

Jesus Christ,” said Colonel Laidlaw, “and kiss my ass! He made it. The Cruise Missile made it.”

S-2 asked, “He didn’t say anything more? No details, no-”

“I had the idea he was stressed,” said the corporal who’d been on radio watch. “He didn’t want to talk at length. He just communicated the message-those are his exact words, sir-and signed off. I have no idea of the origin of the call. He had all call signs right, authentification code right, and I know Sergeant Cruz well and recognized his voice.”

“That’s fine, Nichols, you can go now,” said the colonel, and the young NCO rose, left the bunker tent, and headed back to his duty station.

The colonel, in his nighttime sweats, the exec still in camos, and S-2, also still in camos, sat around the working table under the now-dead monitor on which they’d watched the fate of 2-2 play out. Cigarettes were consumed, and the colonel had the whiff-just the tiniest-of bourbon to him.

“Should we notify higher HQ, sir? The Agency liaison? At least helos at Ripley so we can put a bird airborne to get him out if he calls in again and needs emergency extract, no matter what he says tonight.”

“Negative, negative,” said the colonel. “I don’t like the way they were jumped and that the shooters knew exactly who they were.”

“Sir, it could have just been Taliban assholes. They’ll shoot up anything and say it was God’s will.”

“These guys were not Taliban. They were too disciplined. They were all in prone, they were in a good tactical array, when they moved, they moved professionally, not like hadjis going to a book burning. And let’s not forget: they hit the target. No, we’ll keep this to ourselves. It’s our party, we invented it, it’s our man, our materiel, our mission. No, this is for us. Tomorrow I want a patrol in force to head out on the road to Qalat and I want a lot of other smaller patrol activity in that sector. I want Humvees all over the place, lots of corpsmen and sniper teams. Lots of marine presence and I want the troops on the alert in case Ray needs help fast or needs a place to go to with a pack of hadjis on his ass.”

“Yes, sir,” said the exec. “I’ll draft the orders.”

The colonel turned to S-2.

“Will we be able to eyeball him from above at that time tomorrow, or is the satellite somewhere helpful, like Hawaii or Omaha?”

“We only get real-time satfeed from 1400 through about 1530 tomorrow, sir.”

“Ach,” said the colonel. “That is not pleasing. S-Two, try to think of something that might please me. Think real hard. I know you can do it.”

“Sir, I can request that the Agency task a recon Predator tomorrow and get us a real-time feed while this thing is going down.”

“And what are our chances that these wonderful folks will cooperate with us?”

“I would say somewhere between zero and negative two thousand.”

“That is not pleasing to me.”

“Sir, I will take a Humvee, with your permission, and personally make the request.”

“Tell them if they don’t, I’ll call in an artillery strike on their operations bunker.”

“Sir, I don’t think they’ve got a sense of humor. These people take themselves very seriously. But I do know a guy. In person, maybe I can get something set up. I know if we go routine channels through radio request, some Army dental hygiene unit will be in an ambush somewhere up-country and they’ll get all the drone action.”

“Then you do that, S-Two. You do that and get me my picture show.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Good. Now everybody get some sleep. And pray for Ray if you’re religious. And if you’re not religious, pray for Ray. That’s an order.”

GUIZAR STREET

TANBOOR NEIGHBORHOOD

QALAT

ZABUL PROVINCE

SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

0700 HOURS

Bogier felt a little less edgy. He’d fucked two houris in a house of ill repute in the district, and at least had his rod problems quieted for a bit. He’d taken two dexes and a Chinese red tiger and his mind was racy with energy. All his boys had gotten a little shut-eye, and the two Izzies seemed in good spirits, and not likely to cut his throat while he slept. Now he had to call in, see what was going to happen. Maybe they could all go home. That would be the best result.

He got out the Thuraya, activated it, pressed the button, and waited.

In time Mr. MacGyver picked up.

“Did you have a good time at the whorehouse?” he asked.

“We all needed some R and R, Mr. MacGyver. Those satellites don’t miss a trick, do they?”

“Not when you’re carrying that GPS with you. Funny, I didn’t think you were a doggie-style guy.”

“Wow, that’s some satellite.”

“Joke. Bogier, even the great MacGyver has a sense of humor. So now you’ve gone to ground less than half a mile from the compound.”

“That’s right, sir. And I’ve eyeballed the Many Pleasures Hotel. It’s the usual fucking joint. Not exactly a Holiday Inn. Ugh, negative stars in Frommer’s.”

“I don’t need to know the details. Here’s the play. Get one of your Izzies into the place tomorrow morning or afternoon. He’s got to get to the roof somehow, and plant that GPS. We need a satellite lock-on to watch and see what goes down.”

“Is that where the marine is shooting from?”

“Bogier, if I don’t tell you something, it’s because I don’t want you to know it. So no questions, that’s still the deal.”

“Got it. Sorry. But it’s the only site with enough elevation to get a shot into the compound.”

“You’re a genius, Bogier. No flies on you. Let’s get back to tomorrow, shall we? After you plant that GPS, I want you to surveil. You set up all around. You cover each entrance. There can’t be that many.”

“No, sir.”

“You make sure the marine has entered the building.”

“Suppose he’s there already?”

“We don’t think he’ll take the chance. That’s our best thinking. He’s suspicious now, but he doesn’t know anything. So why put himself there with that big rifle and wait? It’ll make more sense to him to slide in late, check into a room, and cut his exposure to the minimum. Plus he’s got to buy some rope tomorrow, because he doesn’t want to come off that roof by stairway or an elevator built in 1891. He’ll want to get down fast, and rappelling is the only way, and it’s clearly within his skill set.”