Mark Greaney - On target

Court just nodded in the dark. "But you still want to go ahead?"

"Hell yeah," Sierra One said without hesitation. "We're good."

The evening call to prayer came from the minaret in the mosque to the west. If everything went according to plan, Court would be a couple blocks away from that very mosque tomorrow before sunup. He looked at Zack. "You got the stuff for me?"

Zack used his thumb to press a wireless push-to-talk transmission button mounted on the side of the index finger of his glove. He spoke into a small headset angled around his right cheek. "Brad, let's have the ruck."

Sierra Two appeared at the top of the stairs a few seconds later. The rucksack was about the size Court had expected, roughly the same as his other pack, stowed back at the water's edge three hundred yards to the north of this location.

"I need a fucking Sherpa."

"Hey man, you're officially running two ops; for that you need two sets of gear."

Zack next handed over a small plastic box, and Court opened it. It was a C4OPS radio system, the same as the Whiskey Sierra team would be using the next morning. It was new technology, and it had everything but the kitchen sink rolled up into it. A radio, a GPS, wireless PTT buttons to mount on a glove or a weapon, earpieces that also provided noise reduction during gunfire, and a covert microphone headset that was virtually invisible when worn on a face with a beard. Zack had given him a primer on the C4OPS system back in Saint Pete, but before that Court had never heard of it.

"How's the encryption? Any chance the opposition can pick up the transmissions?"

"I'll show you." Zack flipped on the device, pushed the wireless transmit button. He spoke into the microphone in a whisper. "Good evening, all you skinnies and ragheads. My name is Zachary Paul Hightower. My social security number is 413-555-1287 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 413-555-1287 end_of_the_skype_highlighting. President Abboud sucks camel dicks."

Sierra Two was at the top of the stairs. He turned back to Hightower. "That's my social."

Zack smiled. Shrugged. "Is it? My bad, Bradley." He turned back to Court. "You can listen in on our transmissions on this. Just so you know what's going on at our end. But I don't want you clogging the net. Don't transmit. If you need to talk to me, use the Thuraya. I'll have it on at all times, wired into my headset, even if we are in hard contact."

"Why would you be in hard contact? I thought you guys were gonna be out of the way until we rendezvous in the marsh."

"Hey, shit happens, bro. If it breaks bad, who knows what's going to go down? We're all ready to go to shore in support if the situation calls for it. Sudan Station has a van staged for us if we need to move into town in the morning. They also got us local clothes. We brought in secondhand gear. We aren't going in with all U.S. equipment, for deniability's sake. We've got guns from Israel and Germany and Russia, boots from Croatia, packs from China, body armor from Australia."

Court was surprised there had been so much preparation for Whiskey Sierra to be ready to get into the fight, but it had been a long time since he'd been part of a big operation. As a singleton, he normally arranged all the gear and logistics himself.

Zack leaned forward into the soft moonlight. He put a gloved hand out in the dark, and Court shook it.

"Good luck tomorrow. I'll be seeing you, and Oryx, when it's done. We'll party like rock stars on the Hannah once we exfil."

"Sounds like a plan. But first how 'bout you guys give me a lift back across the lagoon."

"No prob."

Court searched Hightower's face and body for any signs of deception. He saw worry, anxiety over the op itself, but nothing in his body language gave Court any reason to suspect deception. It comforted him to know that Sierra One did not seem to be working on a different objective in this operation.

At ten o'clock that evening Gentry stood on a street corner, just a few blocks west of where he'd been dropped off by Zack's six-man Zodiac inflatable boat. He stood back in the dark, but many local men had passed within feet of him. Some had looked at him with curiosity but not suspicion or fear. In Sid's info on the city he'd learned that the passengers and crew on the Western sailboats and yachts that moored in the harbor were often allowed passes to shop or eat in the town, as long as they paid for the privilege and did not have any Israeli visits stamped into their passports. Court imagined whites were a rare but not uncommon sight, so even if his skin tone raised eyebrows, there was little reason to worry it would raise an alarm.

An old white Mercedes sedan pulled up to the corner. It idled there, its poorly tuned engine coughing into the night air as the driver waited. This would be Mohammed, the local policeman on the payroll of Russian intelligence. Court did not come out of his shadow at first; instead, he searched for any evidence that the vehicle had been followed. Ultimately he decided that unless it had been followed by a donkey cart pulling a fifty-five gallon drum of water, he was clear. There were no other vehicles in sight.

Court climbed into the passenger side, and the vehicle rolled off down dusty, dark streets.

The driver's face was blank, unmoving. Gentry felt that even if there had been light in the car's interior, even if the biggest, brightest bulb from the biggest football stadium in the U.S. was pointed at this man's onyx face, it would reveal no more detail than Court could now discern here in the darkness.

The policeman spoke first, in English. His voice was low and gravelly. "You are Russian?"

This guy had been working for the Russians; there was no reason to confuse him.

"That's right."

"Good. Tell your people I want more money."

"I'm not your agent. Tell them yourself."

Nothing but the man's lips moved. Court had seen vending machines with more lifelike qualities than this informant. "I am in a dangerous position, meeting you, helping the FSB with this. It is now much more dangerous than when I agreed. I want more money before I proceed."

Court wasn't buying it. In Gentry's experience it was the rule not the exception that an informant would ask for more money at the last moment. They often insisted that matters had become more complicated as a means to this end. As far as Court was concerned, this man's main use had been to drive him from Khartoum to Suakin, and since Court had not needed that particular service, he didn't really give a shit whether Sid or the FSB paid the man or not. Still, he'd come tonight to see if the cop could be of any use at all.

It was already looking like this man was not worth the trouble.

"I don't have any money." It was a lie, but Court didn't feel like blowing his stash of cash on this son of a bitch. "If you have information valuable to me, I'll tell my superiors you were helpful."

The stone-faced man pulled over and parked the car. It was pitch-black on all sides of the vehicle, and the headlights shone on the dust cloud created by the car's tires. Mohammed looked into Court's eyes. Court hoped he appeared as dark and threatening as this asshole. "That is not enough."

"Then I guess we're done. I'll tell the FSB you changed your mind. I'm sure you'll be hearing from them soon enough." Court made like he was going to get out, but he knew what was coming.

"Wait."

Court settled back down in his cracked leather seat. His pistol dug into his right hip as he did so.

"There are new developments in Suakin."

Court thought he was about to hear another spiel about danger to justify Mohammed's desire for more money. He sighed, but the informant's next comment got his attention.

"I thought Abboud would only arrive with his regular security detail. Twenty-five men or so. Normally when he comes, that is all. Yes, there are always more up at Port Sudan-they stay with his helicopter-but when he comes to Suakin, usually it is just the twenty-five guards."