Don Pendleton - Nightmare Army

They’d had a surprisingly good dinner, washed down with a variety of regional beers, ranging from pale golden pilsners to a weak, dark dunkel that all three had agreed was the worst of the lot. Now, with dinner behind them, Tyrell tapped his fingers restlessly on the tabletop, obviously anxious for the evening’s entertainment to begin. Scott looked uneasy, while Alcaster was engaged in his internal struggle—which he’d been waging with himself since the trip began—as to whether he was really going to go through with this. His mind churned with equal parts anticipation, nervousness and flat-out fear. He swallowed through a suddenly dry throat and his palms were sweating so much he nearly dropped his beer glass when he went for a drink. He could back out right now, say he wasn’t feeling well from dinner or something—

Having made up his mind to do just that, Alcaster was rehearsing what he was going to say before excusing himself and going back to their room when the cuckoo clock on the wall over the bar began chiming the hour. As if drawn on cue, the main doors of the small lobby next to the bar opened and a parade of young women in tight dresses, high-heeled shoes and a range of makeup entered the bar. Although most of them had game smiles on, it was relatively clear that none was here of her own free will. However, that really didn’t seem to matter to the men waiting in the bar.

All of the men there—many of whom had been furtively counting the minutes, much like Tyrell, Scott and Alcaster had—perked up, smiling and waving as they looked over the night’s offerings. The three students huddled together, eyeing the women as they made the rounds, with Tyrell urging the other two to make their selections quickly.

“We need to cull the ones we want out of the herd, or they’re gonna go elsewhere,” he insisted.

“For God’s sake, Josh, these are people, not cattle!” Scott hissed.

Tyrell rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, would you pull that stick out of your ass for just one night? Look, we all know why we’re here, and so do they. If we don’t take advantage of the situation, someone else will. Now—” Tyrell craned his head up as three women, a blonde, a brunette and a dark-haired woman somewhere in their twenties, all dressed in different varieties of brightly colored, skintight dresses, approached their table. The trio of younger women had headed off a pair of more mature-looking prostitutes who had glared at the interlopers but still retreated. “Uh...can we help you ladies?” Tyrell asked.

“You are Americans, yes?” the brunette asked in decent English. “We love Americans.”

“Well, I am, and my friends are from Canada and England, but don’t worry, they’re all right.” Tyrell’s weak joke made all three ladies laugh, however, and he nodded at the other two to push a table over to make more room as he waved them in. “Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you.” The brunette introduced herself as Anoush, the blonde as Lusine and the raven-haired young woman as Siranush. Once Scott and Alcaster had gotten another table and chairs, the three women sat among the suddenly tongue-tied young men.

“You are all here on vacation?” Lusine asked.

“Er, yes,” Scott said. “We’re medical students on holiday, that’s right.”

The three women exchanged glances. “You are going to be doctors, yes?” Siranush said, placing her hand on Alcaster’s thigh. “We love doctors.”

“Well, we’re not—” he began.

“Great!” Tyrell interrupted a bit too quickly. “We were just about to order a bottle. Is there anything you would recommend?” he asked, ignoring the sudden warning glance from Scott.

Again, the three girls glanced at each other. “You all seem like nice boys,” Aroush said, her voice low. “You should know to be careful about asking that sort of thing here. A lot of bars in the cities have arrangements with the girls, who get a kickback for steering tourists to higher-priced drinks.”

“Oh, they do?” Tyrell asked. “Well, thanks for the tip. I think you all deserve a drink just for telling us that.”

Siranush swept her long, dark hair back over her shoulder, exposing generous cleavage as she nodded at the beer bottles on the table. “You are all drinking beer. Perhaps you would care for something a bit stronger?”

The three students exchanged hesitant glances. “Perhaps...?” Tyrell said.

The blonde flagged down a server and rattled off an order in Armenian, then leaned back in and snuggled up to Scott. “He will bring us a bottle of Ararat cognac. It is very good, and not nearly as costly as other bottles.”

“All right...” Scott leaned over to Alcaster. “What about ‘beer before liquor, never sicker’? I don’t want to be ill for...you know, what comes later.”

Alcaster considered the adage for a moment. “Well, we’ve already eaten, so it shouldn’t be a problem—”

Tyrell cleared his throat. “Guys? Would you mind keeping your heads in the game here, please?”

Their server had returned with a squat bottle and six small glasses. With a flourish and a small bow, he presented the cognac to the group, then set it and the glasses on the table.

“Now, if I remember correctly—” Tyrell said as he distributed glasses to each person and began filling them with the dark amber liquid “—there’s supposed to be a toast with each round, right?”

“Very good, Josh,” Anoush said as she raised her glass. “What would you like to drink to?”

With a broad grin, Tyrell stood and raised his glass. “To a night we’ll never forget!”

CHAPTER SIX

Ten hours earlier

“We’re ready for you, Doctor.”

Richter took the offered headset with its attached microphone and slipped it on, adjusting it on his oblong head. “Testing, testing, one, two. Mr. Firke, can you hear me?”

“Yes, and that had better be all I hear from you until we’re finished, understand?”

“Unless I feel the situation warrants it, I will leave the execution of this mission entirely in your hands. On the ground, you are in charge.”

Richter was pleased he’d gotten Stengrave to go along with wiring the infiltration team for video and sound. He’d pushed hard for it, saying he wanted a record of the entire experiment, and that the data they collected on the Armenian village before the test began would be vital for their results. He figured Firke wouldn’t be pleased about it, but as Richter had suspected, he had gone along when he realized there was no getting around his boss’s orders.

Now he watched as the squad of six armed men drove down the deserted mountain road, their vehicle’s headlights barely illuminating a few yards through the foggy night. Cresting a hill, they spotted the lights of the target village a mile away. Firke killed the lights and the engine, and the men got out and checked their gear one last time. Slipping a pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead, he made sure his team was ready to go and led them into the night.

Although the distance wasn’t that great as the crow flies, the steep mountainside varied from passable to almost vertical, and the men had their work cut out for them on some of the rougher sections. Halfway there, two of the men, each carrying a long, hard-shell case slung across his back, split off and began climbing an escarpment overlooking the village. Covering the rest of the mile while making sure they weren’t detected on the way took just over an hour, about as long as Richter had estimated.

He made sure the digital recorders, a primary and two backups, were all running perfectly, then turned his attention back to the over-the-shoulder view he had of the men as they cut their trail, as though he was walking right behind them. After a few minutes of quick, silent movement to get as close to the wall as they dared, Firke held up a fisted hand. All of the men stopped immediately.