Mark Greaney - On target

"So… what's different this time?"

"The NSS arrived this afternoon."

"The secret police are here?"

"Correct."

"How many?" Court looked down to his hands. He picked at his fingernails.

"I saw five men." Then the man in the shadows said, almost as an afterthought, "But there is a lot of military in town, also. You need to watch out for them."

"What's a lot?"

"A company, at least. Infantry."

This made Gentry look up at the driver again. "Any idea why?"

"They say a group of rebels has been tracked to a farm outside of town."

In an instant, Court knew the CIA operation had been compromised.

"Rebels?"

"Yes. SLA. It is strange. They have never operated this far to the east."

"Any idea how many SLA?"

He waved an arm, his first gesticulation. "Not many. Just a dozen men or so."

A dozen. Zack had initially promised one hundred, then cut that to thirty-five. Now Court's most solid intel on the subject was that the real number was twelve. He didn't blame Zack; surely if Sierra One knew his proxy fighters were such an impotent force, he wouldn't have gone this far with the op. No, Court had seen this kind of deteriorating math before. He blamed the local CIA office, Sudan Station, for overpromising and underdelivering. There probably never were going to be a hundred SLA in Suakin; thirty-five was their best guess, and now it was clear that Sudan Station's best guess sucked.

A dozen SLA, already compromised to the local authorities, weren't going to fool anyone. If the attempt to kidnap the president went forward now, the army would roll up the pathetic little force of rebels in a matter of minutes.

Court could still assassinate the president for Greg Sidorenko, but kidnapping him for the CIA was out of the question without the rebel attack. It was obvious to Gentry now that Zack and his mission would be aborted.

"So I want more money to help you tomorrow."

Court needed to talk to Zack before he even knew if there would be an op tomorrow. But he realized now he might just need Muhammed's help in getting out of the area. If Nocturne Sapphire was dead in the dirt, then the CIA might want him to do Sid's job and exfil as planned via FSB connections.

"I have two thousand euros."

"I want ten."

Court paused. It wasn't his money, he couldn't care less what this man was paid, but he'd been bargaining for one thing or another in the Third World for most of the past fifteen years, and he knew what he was doing.

He nodded. "Three now, three after." Six grand was probably three times what this creepy bastard made in a year. Assuming the Russians had already agreed to pay him that much or more, this clown was making a serious chunk of change.

Mohammed looked at Gentry a long time. Finally he pulled the car back into the street and began driving. "Agreed."

He and Court discussed arrangements for several minutes as the Mercedes inched around the town. Court tried to reconnoiter while they talked by looking out the grimy windows, but he could not make heads or tails of the confusing streets and dirt alleyways.

Finally Mohammed pulled over again. Court was surprised to find himself right where he'd been picked up a half hour before. The policeman said, "Tomorrow morning I will be at the agreed upon location at the agreed upon time. I will take you to a house in Khartoum where you can wait until it is safe to go to the airport."

Gentry reached into his front pocket and pulled out a band-covered roll of euros. It was Sid's money, of course; the CIA hadn't given him any cash.

Court made it back to his overnight hide at eleven o'clock. He checked to make sure nothing in his packs had been disturbed, and he opened a tepid bottle of water and drank it down. Then he picked up the Hughes Thuraya and made a call.

Zack answered on the third ring. "Just getting some beauty sleep, Six; this better be good." Hightower spoke sleepily.

"You need to abort Nocturne Sapphire. The rebels are compromised."

When Hightower spoke again, he was wide awake. "Says who?"

"Says the FSB informant. He's a local cop. A crew of NSS and a company of GOS infantry is in town because a dozen SLA were tracked here."

"A dozen?"

"Roger that."

"One dozen. One-two rebel fighters?"

"His intel seems solid."

There was a long break. "Fucking Sudan Station."

"That's what I'm thinking. Local CIA either exaggerated the shit out of the SLA's ability to get men into the theater, or-"

"Or the SLA lied, fudged the numbers to get a pay-check from Uncle Sam. And then they go and get their bush-league asses compromised!"

"Fuckers."

"Roger that." Sierra One's chuckle came out of Court's phone. "Never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Sidorenko and his local contact."

"Yeah, right? This could have been messy."

"Let me call this in to Denny."

"Tell him you need to abort."

"Let's see what he says."

"Hit me back ASAP, One. I can still do the hit on Oryx; the opposition in the area won't stop me from that."

"Let's see what Denny says," Zack repeated.

Court's overnight hide was, from an operational standpoint at least, a near perfect location to store his gear and lay up for the night. With both large rucks opened and the gear sorted and positioned for his fast access, he found a warm boulder large and flat enough for him to lie on. The gentle tickling of the lagoon's waves against the shoreline rocks was peaceful and would help him rest when the time came.

He'd waited over an hour for the call back from Zack. It came after midnight, just as Gentry's eyes shut and he nodded off to sleep.

He'd wired the satellite phone into his C4OPS system, so when the earpiece chirped in Court's ear, he just pressed a button on the phone to send the call directly into the headset.

Gentry answered quickly. "Yeah?"

"Carmichael says go ahead."

"With Sid's hit on Abboud, right?"

"Negative. We stick with Nocturne Sapphire. Snatch Oryx and exfil over water."

"How the hell can I snatch him with all the opposition in the-"

"Sudan Station doesn't believe it. Thinks either it's bullshit intel your source is feeding you, or bullshit intel you're feeding us. And Carmichael is siding with the local station. We go ahead for now, discount this single source of yours, because local CIA says there are thirty-five SLA here, no reports of major NSS or GOS movements. The SLA say they will hit the square at oh six thirty-six tomorrow morning, no problems."

"I'm not feeding anyone bullshit, Zack."

"I know you're not. Listen, Carmichael says I am cleared to make a game-time decision. I can knock it off at any point if it doesn't look good tomorrow morning. He's given me the go-ahead to be on site."

"You're going to be at the bank with me?"

"No, but we'll be close by. He's green-lighted Whiskey Sierra for direct action if the situation requires it."

Court sucked in the moist air. "Seriously? You guys are going to shoot it out with the bodyguards and GOS troops? What happened to all that deniability bullshit? Why are you even using me in this if you have a green light to-"

"Court, Carmichael has his back to the wall. He's made some promises that he has to keep by any means necessary. He's promised the White House that we can hand Oryx over to the Euros. That means, basically, that we have to hand Oryx over to the Euros. The future of the Special Operations Group rests on this op."

"The future of my ass rests on this op. You promised this would come down to a few of Abboud's bodyguards against one hundred rebel forces. Now it's the bodyguards, a company of GOS troops, and an NSS contingent of unknown size, all against a couple of pickups full of untrained dipshits who've already been compromised!"

"I told you, Sudan Station doesn't think they've been compromised. And even if they have, Whiskey Sierra will be the force multiplier. We'll get it done."